


peace is a war you can never truly win or at least it feels that way

by betteroffbad



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, historical details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 09:15:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18280175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betteroffbad/pseuds/betteroffbad
Summary: anatole tried to trick natasha into marrying him but it didnt work. luckily he has you to comfort him. . . or does he??





	peace is a war you can never truly win or at least it feels that way

well one day anatole tried to trick natasha into marrying him  
but not really marrying it was a fake marriage he was already married  
he was goaded by his sister who thought everything he did was hilarious  
but not so hilarious it made her actually laugh  
just hilarious enough for her to say wryly anatole that's hilarious 

natasha went running down the stairs of her aunt's big house  
in this story it was half open to the sky like the house in doctor zhivago  
with snow on the broken steps and snow on the grand piano  
natasha was in her nightdress dressed too thinly for the lack of walls  
the snow soaked right through her hand-me-down slippers

that is because this story like a dream  
is a product of your mind at play  
or possibly natasha's guilty mind  
it's hard to say

anyway natasha met anatole at the sleigh  
she made it all the way down the long splintered stairs  
all the way through snow and ice it was a terribly long way  
in the dream she had over and over again in the months to come  
in the dream no one stops her no one is even sleeping  
she reaches the sleigh and he puts his chubby childish hand on her shoulder  
and her shoulder is bare and her whole body burning  
and beyond that all pain and confusion  
dream-carpets beneath them instead of the ground  
dream-blows in dream-profusion

i guess you know already what actually happened  
sonya that tattletale told their aunt whatshername  
there was no sleigh no chase through the snow no fake wedding  
anatole went back to the inn feeling stupid and bloody  
his friend whatshisname made about fifty jokes  
while you poured room-temperature vodka with an understanding expression 

anatole put his head in his hands  
he put his bare arm on the counter  
you said mister it sounds like you've had a bad night  
he said now that I've met you I guess it's all right 

you are the young barmaid in this story  
you have been through a lot of shit  
statistically speaking it's as good as you could hope for  
you would never have been natasha  
with her music lessons and her crumbling parents  
in their bower of kindly detritus  
you have been given the best deal possible  
almost miraculous when you consider the odds  
you've been pinched slapped and breathed on but not much worse  
or if there's been worse, you ignored it  
your father the innkeeper is a sentimental sot  
people feel sorry for him so he keeps the prices high  
and business is good but not so good  
that you don't get a minute to sit with yourself  
every now and then, even outside the privy  
you are clever, priest-taught for three years. You read IOUs  
the Bible, and once, a poem

anatole is a little like the guy in the poem  
he is callow and callous and too well-dressed  
you wonder if you can remember what the girl in the poem said  
and if saying the words might make this a story  
The men at the inn tell dozens of stories  
over and over, but most of them are jokes  
with a foul-smelling punchline. A story that's sad  
is better, you think, for the one being told  
There's sympathy. You could be sad if you tried.

He doesn't give you the chance to decide  
He traps your hand between his two hands and kisses it  
and you think this is it, this is happening at last  
Sweet flower of the countryside he says, I bet  
you're worth a hundred fine ladies, however shabby  
I bet your daddy wouldn't even notice if I took you to bed

You hate it when people say things like that to be honest  
You have heard things like that about three thousand times  
since you started counting in the middle of your twelfth year  
it's the sort of thing callow young well-dressed men  
and men who are old enough to have said it themselves  
at least a thousand times and so should know better  
somehow expect you to find fresh and charming  
somehow never once compared notes with each other  
or even listened to the man two stools over sixty seconds ago  
before presenting it again like a gigantic ant-covered corsage  
grinning and unfolding their hands as if their hands held the world  
which for those ants you guess it does

anyway the ants are a metaphor  
the point is you have heard that line a billion times before  
it's a dumb line but you're young and lonely and hungry for romance  
amd when the tears start in your callow youth's eyes you think this could be your chance

poor thing you say kindly and frown a bit  
he says my fragrant country flower you don't know the half of it  
and he rambles on about his sister and the way she laughs  
by never laughing and how if he had the chance  
he would hear her laugh for real, ugly and out loud  
like she did when they were children in that huge rotting plush house

how he can't remember the last time or if the last time even happened  
they had everything laid out before them and what good did it ever do them  
like saints called to their immolation only the pyre was just Kuragin  
he doesn't explain that's his name but you know because you understand him  
in another life you read the book of his life and you've come here just to help him  
you lived fifteen years in this grody old inn, drawing water, pouring drinks  
you lay beside the sniffling scullery girl, you watched the seasons stagger  
all so you could pat his puffy hand and say, I'm sorry, mister

He shrugs. He grins. You remember the words of the poem you were trying to remember  
You remember just in time that it hasn't been written yet  
You remember you come from a different time, from the future, like anatole's author

It's still not too late! You lean over the counter,  
grab his stupid frilly tie, spill half a dram of vodka  
You shove your tongue past his fat lips tasting of tea and disappointment  
whatshisname who has been right there this whole time laughs like a hyena  
and your dad wakes up just in time to trip over his boots and make a fuss  
and whatshisname says let's go home, this hussy's too hot for us

The next day you'll be gone. You'll have never been. There's no inkeeper's daughter  
The innkeeper will feel your loss and not know why and drink and feel shame  
You'll be back in your time, in the real world, wondering why you're so bad at this game. 

maybe someday you'll get it right and your daydreams will go like you want them to go  
until then you'll keep on trying though why you keep trying you don't really know


End file.
